


Shattered

by Iresolatio



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multiple Partners, STD prevention 1700s style please do not do this at home, a quartermaster’s job is thankless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24515704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iresolatio/pseuds/Iresolatio
Summary: Flint is all too obviously grief wrecked on some dark shore after Miranda's death. His actions, erratic. His new quartermaster decides it's time to save Flint from himself. Little does Silver know it includes following Flint into a Port Royal tavern, only to see him bend over and ask to be fucked by anyone. Everyone obliges. Silver copes with the situation in true Silver style.
Relationships: (Historical), Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 13
Kudos: 45





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> The first scenario, Flint getting fucked like he does I got from this sci-fi book I read in the late 90s. I have no idea of the name, so if anyone knows, tell me! It obviously had an impact. The rest of this kink fest is me though. Please let me know if you think additional tags are warranted. 
> 
> This is a sequel to [Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230224), but is standalone. 
> 
> It is unbetaed.

_Flint - The Walrus, at sea_

Miranda’s clothes were in his cabin, dresses, stays, stomacher, petticoats, most in simple linen. In his hands were her silver mirror and hairbrush, heavy and ornate. At the Hamilton’s townhouse Miranda had had a full luxurious silver toilet service: candlesticks, ewers, bowls and caskets. Life had forced her to learn to leave with the barest. He tucked the mirror under his arm, ran his fingers over the bristles of the hairbrush, and teased out two long brown hairs. He remembered she had had other brushes too, now it was just this one, which she had used in Nassau. Even he knew by rights the dressing plate, of which the toilet service was one part, belonged to the wife, but Alfred Hamilton had begrudged her even that much.

She had been forced to steal items: mirror and brush being two. Flint had collected them from their final resting places. She had scattered these things in his cabin despite the short sail to Charlestown used to shared space, their things intermingled. He had known about these feminine accoutrements but had never touched them, except for the hairbrush. He had combed her hair, seeing the grey emerge slowly over the years. He gripped the handle of the hairbrush now, cold in his hands. These were things that went to make Miranda, and she had no use for them now.

He circled the cabin and gathered the rest and placed everything on his cot, on the rough blanket. It was a small pile. He felt there ought to be _more_ somehow to match the more in his heart. His eyes went to the pillow. A year ago, she had thrown it at him as he left to hunt. It had hit him in the chest, heavy enough to knock the breath out of him. When he had said he would take it ‘next time’ she had laughed offhandedly and said she had made it herself from fabric offcuts left from when she’d upholstered a chair. A tiny touch of guilt painted thinly. He had had to take it with him then, and now he rather liked it, it was firm and it stayed in place in the roughest of weather. His hand traced the tapestry, the reds had faded a little in the year since. He wanted to hug it to his chest but knew it would not help.

He closed his eyes, took a moment or two, opened them before he swiftly removed her things to his desk, but not quickly enough to not feel her body pressed against his on the cot, head under his, both laid on that very pillow. He consciously drew his mind away, he just needed everything packed, and not for his eye catch on her things like little hooks all hours of the day as they had the past few.

He brought over her carpetbag and placed it on his desk, opened the clasp ready to shove everything into it. He jolted when he saw what was still in it: the wooden box with the plug, which rested on the bottom. She had brought it along. He sat down heavily on his chair. He tried to work it out for a few moments, before he placed everything of hers into her carpetbag, and buried the box. Her reasons did not matter now.

Silver came past to ask him what he wanted to do with Miranda’s possessions. Flint was neither surprised by his quartermaster’s perception nor timing. _Would he like to donate it to a charitable concern at Port Royal, or—_ He trailed off. Silver’s tone was gentle now. Everyone was treating him like a widower. Flint almost laughed. Widowed twice, never married.

He had asked Miranda to marry him after Thomas’s death and she had smiled wisely and said no. She had given no reason and he in turn had not asked for one, knowing she was right. Yet here he was, and he suspected Silver wanted to commend her things to the sea, turn it to a ritual perhaps, as was done for lost sailors.

Miranda was not of the sea though, she belonged in a place as she has said of music and literature, surrounded by beautiful things. She should have been sumptuous in gold, in vivid greens and blues, and not linen with practical calico pockets. Fresh cut flowers in every room not frangipani, or lurid hibiscus but rather sugar scented roses. Charlestown she had said. Life could be found in Charlestown. Without him she could have kept it all, the townhouse, her life, Thomas. Loving two, losing both. His skin could not hold it in storm and sorrow.

 _No._ He said to Silver _he would like to keep them._

Silver said nothing and Flint continued to stare down at his hands, fingers clasped loosely, projecting calm. He remembered he had kissed her hand that first day in the carriage, held her hand in his, her long fingers had been smooth and cool. That smile on her face, she had gently teased, asked him to join her in her little escapade. When he looked up Silver had gone.

Flint continued as he always had, thought, planned, led but outside of himself. The next raid, and of course he would go, despite Silver’s objection. He needed let the world know Captain Flint who had razed Charlestown was coming for them. When he talked to the men his own voice echoed in his ears. Sometimes at night when he laid down he touched his face, or chest or hands and he felt nothing, numb. However, it lent a pleasant sort of calmness most days. Life in aspic.

He did not allow his eye to catch on the carpetbag underneath his desk.

During the third raid he came back to himself, his wavering vision settling. It took an unwary moment, whilst he was dealing with the first guard stationed in the hallway, when the second guard saw an opening. Flint got a poorly aimed dirk to the side, which skidded into his belt. Flint took him out cleanly with his sword on the return. It was not enough to slow him. There were no more between them, the guard stationed at the bedroom door fleeing at faceless black and red dipped sword. It made it easy to do what had to be done: the message to all it applied _without exceptions_. One more night and then they would remove to Port Royal to replenish powder and rations and onto Freeport for the next raid.

Back at the Walrus the wound over one rib was a thin red scratch, but he could feel, the sting, the notion of body. He felt so cold now. Blue and white as Miranda had looked in her raw wood coffin. When he had washed Charlestown off, powder, dirt, blood and more, he had realised he had escaped physically unscathed. How was it _he_ the wretch was still here when the two most wonderful people who had resided in his heart were no longer? He loved them differently of course, Thomas he remembered for those wonderful months, his love uncomplicated, but Miranda? She and he had been a pairing for a decade.

She was lost but perhaps…he so desperately _wanted_.

He rarely undressed fully to sleep, but here he was minus shirt already. What would it matter just this once? Silver, yes, might enter his cabin, but he would hear him coming. He went to the carpetbag, pushed aside the fabric, then got out the box from the bottom. He lifted the lid. The green fabric was the same, it still looked the same. The milky glass laid in fronds of the material but nestled to the side was a white ceramic pot of cream. Miranda’s special cream. As much as Flint wanted to go without, for the pleasure of the pain, there was a chance it would he would tear. Wounds there were prone to infection. Possibly he would expire expeditiously, but it was the thought of subjecting himself to Dr Howell’s ministrations if he did not, that stopped him.

He undid his boots, stockings and the rest, which left his lower half bare but put his shirt back on. It would cover the essential areas if he were disturbed. He scooped out a fair amount of cream, but then was torn between slicking plug or arse. These would not normally be his decisions. They were hers. He closed his eyes and smoothed some on his arse, before he held the plug in his left hand to coat with his right. Both then, so he did not have to choose.

He leant one foot on his desk to push the plug in, for once unable to relax. She would run her hand down his spine and over his buttocks, bestowing a pinch if she felt he deserved it. He had rated several for calling that damned thing the ‘adamantine’ pillow on his return from sea. She would also tell him how good he was, how responsive he was, how well his arse took it. So, he imagined that. It did go in after a little effort on the widest part, and then sat jammed inside him, hard and thick.

He clambered into his cot and lay down. What an absurd thing to lie with his arse plugged and no one to fuck him. Silver would if he asked but as he had learned with Gates, quartermasters were off limits. He did not want closeness anyway and Silver was… too close at the best of times. He could masturbate he supposed. Flint needed something that would sate him but leave him alone and unmoved.

He was three to one, the last remaining shard of glass left in a broken pane. He remembered being in bed with them, all combinations wonderful in the way they slept those few times. Warm and loved and— known. He jerked at the sound that emerged, an ugly choked noise from throat not his mouth. He felt as he had the day he had sunk into the sea. Cold. Bloody Silver fishing him out. If he had died then Miranda would still be alive.

She was the strongest of them all. Practical. He had been so lucky to have had ten years with her. Thomas the same before him, another ten. Their wife. Feeling the glass shift inside him he thought about what would it have been like to call Thomas husband in turn? No. Never. The acts involved in the physical loving of a man would never be acceptable in polite society. Never blessed by church and state. Just alleys, molly houses, beats and piers for the likes of them. Like the backroom of the Cock and Bull in Port Royal. This was what it was about anyway, he faced up to himself. He had been there once before Miranda had started plugging him and then fucking him.

He reached behind him and pulled the plug out and it came out halfway, so his arsehole was fully stretched around the girth. He felt something then, warm not painful, for the first time since Charlestown. An escape for a few hours. Miranda was blue with death in his visions and he knew holding her would mean his. He needed this to chase away the cold.

So, some men at his back with their chests pressed close. Come in his arse, which warmed him. He pushed the plug back in again. He shifted to his side, facing the wood partition, wriggled his hips minimally to seat the glass comfortably from ease of practice and drew up the blanket to his chest. He slept well of the first time, only waking once in the night when he thought he heard someone, but no one woke him, so he slipped into deep rest again.

After his morning ablutions he slipped the plug in again, a weird easing in his chest as soon as he had. It brought him back into himself, back into his body, the heaviness tethering him to reality.

He went back again to Miranda’s carpetbag, fished out the mirror and her scissor clip. He did not need the mirror at first, long hanks of hair falling way easily, the rest done through touch alone. At the end on the ground was his hair, a surprising amount given his high forehead. Despite that both Miranda and Thomas had loved it loose, complimented him, run their fingers though the red-brown strands. Before the Hamiltons he had kept it long simply because he despised wigs, and after for beauty (such as he had) to them. He had cut his hair short after Thomas had passed, until Miranda had ordered him to grow it again. He had but only to his jaw and she had not pushed for more. She was softer than Thomas on those transgressions.

Now she was gone, and there was no one, he did not need to make himself look any particular way. He went to the drawers, got out his straight razor and stared at it contemplative when there was a knock on the door. Silver came in slowly as he did now, took in razor, his hair on the floor below him and did not blink.

“Captain, I suggest a different tack—” Silver’s usually cheerfully opaque face was too gentle.

“Oh, do you?” He did not really care, but this was what they did.

“Yes – one moment—” Silver turned around, paused, and walked out as slowly as he had come in. Flint knew why the pause, the wound too fresh for the false leg, the stiches barely out of the flap. He would be better off with a crutch, far more manoeuvrable and imparting better balance. He stayed quiet. Silver would work it out.

Silver returned with a comb and a pair of longish pointed scissors and gestured to his chair.

“A barber as well as a cook, are you?” Flint acceded, walked over, and sat down. He felt odd about what was to happen. Sometimes the banter reminded him of when he had met Thomas, just sometimes.

Silver ran his hand over the ragged ends of hair and balanced carefully on his good leg before trimming using the comb. It took inordinately long. Silver was just too close. Flint could not move his head or his body, still for the sake of his head as well as Silver’s pride. He did not want to unbalance him. But all Flint wanted to do after a few minutes to shift so the base of the plug was comfortable. Silver stepped away at last, comb and scissors in hand. Flint settled himself in the chair before he ran his fingers over the long stubble was left. No alive cared about his hair, and neither did he. He nodded to Silver in acknowledgment.

Silver’s smile bordered on relieved.

_Flint – Port Royal_

He let Silver make the address to the men once they got close to Kingston Harbour, warning of wine, women, song, the fucking English and fucking Royal Navy who did not like their magistrates threatened with extinction. Flint said something about business to Silver once he was rowed ashore, and Silver nodded amicably. Flint assumed Silver knew was he was after, just not the flavour. Flint did not care, let him assume he wanted to replace Miranda for a spell. This was the place for it after all, one in every four buildings a bar or brothel. Indulgence was able to be found easily, exotic as well as ordinary, all for a few or more or for hundreds of pieces of eight.

Flint went straight for the Cock and Bull. He paused for an hour at the front bar for rum and courage, felt limbs loosen, lips become lax. It also allowed him to check if anyone had followed him. No. He caught the owner’s eye and said the phrase. He got a reply after he handed over the usual entry fee. Discretion cost. He went around to the side, past the privy, and the door was opened for him on the other.

He went in. It looked no different to the front bar. Aside from singer with a friend embracing a theorbo, it was the usual, men who looked like men, men who looked like him. Well before. Now he did not know what he looked like. Unpleasant. But what he was going to ask— well his face did not make a difference.

He cleared his throat and caught the eyes of the men who looked up.

“For the next hour I will be bent over that,” he pointed to a sturdy wooden cask of a decent height, “and any man who wishes to have my arse is free to do so.” He walked over to it, took off his coat, folded it into a neat pillow and placed it in front of him on the cask. He then removed everything else, including boots, which he left on the rushes. Everything else he piled on beside his coat and left only his shirt on. He needed it, that little comfort. It would drape over his hole in between turns. He pushed the shirt up and bent over letting the men in the room look. People liked his arse, there was a lot of it now to match the belly. No one wanted anything else, no one would want any else anymore. He did not hear anyone approach, so he reached back and took the plug out slowly, and his hole expanded and the closed on its way out. He strained to push out a little of the extra cream he had put into himself that morning, knowing what it would look like, his hole slickly inviting.

Chairs scraped back. Flint felt his chest tighten. He closed his fist around the plug, he needed to hold onto it, his other grasped the top of cask. His fingers barely felt the scrape of wood. He laid his head on his coat-pillow and pushed his hips back even further at an angle. Soon there was a hand on his lower back and the brush of material on his thighs. The man did not bother to say anything, just pushed in. Flint let out a small choked sound. It felt good to be taken, the man a solid presence inside him. Comforting like the plug, but warm on entry and much bigger. Flint’s hand went to his cock, enjoying it, the rhythm, the fact his body was accepting of it. This is what he liked, his arse open, a big cock inside. Greedy for the pleasure that came with penetration. The man came too quickly, finished, and Flint was left wanting more.

The next one went in easy, slid in on the spend of the first, better, and hit the sweet spot inside him. James had discovered it with Tommy and his wooden dick. His eyes had rolled back in his head that first time, knowing that pleasure. Before it had been too hurried, too quick for him to really enjoy it. He had wanted to give the same to Tommy – he had pleasured women that way with his hands, the soft spongy spot on the finger curl.

“Pay attention slut!” He was brought back to himself on a particularly violent thrust, his stomach contacting wood. Flint cringed. This is what he deserved. This is what was left for him for the rest of his life. Miserably seeking satisfaction in shame and humiliation, and without Miranda and Thomas, in violence. “Tighten your loose fucking arse because you’re so sloppy I can’t feel myself.” Flint clenched and that seemed to please the other man, and it felt rather good, him as he actively resisted penetration, however there was now an audible sound as the man pushed in and out. Squelching. The whole room could hear his arse being fucked. His blood was thick now, his cock harder than before, starting to leak to match his arse. The man did not make further comments, pleased by his compliance, spending fast. Flint felt quick soft brush of fingers on his cheek and a quick whispered “Your arse is fine, I thought you’d like to hear it.” Flint frowned. He did not need… sympathy? What? This was not what he wanted. It was on the edge of his tongue, to turn around and demand everyone else to make it hurt.

The next two were forgettable, in and out, and he thought unused to fucking. Young. Taking too long to push in, hesitant. They did not say anything. He tried not to think this may have been their introduction to this life, a sad old man with a sloppy arse filled with come. He could feel the collective spend dribble out, a steady stream. He had not considered that when planning this, despite the shirt covering his arse, it would run cream and wet down his legs due to gravity. The next man grabbed his cock while he fucked him and did alright for coordination. The man finished – he had lasted longer than most – and Flint was disappointed. He continued on his own, applied pressure like he liked it, a twist at the tip of his cock. He liked the pleasant soreness of his arse, liked the rum in his blood, liked he was filled with nothing but the physical pleasure. He liked he was properly warm for the first time since Charlestown.

The next was very rough, and so it was good in a different way. His fingers were on his ribs which hurt, especially the side with the cut, dug in painfully, and he did not even have to ask for it. His arsehole ached. Flint did not care, his hand still pumping his cock. He was close, he thought, that feeling on the horizon, consciousness narrowed down to his groin. The man slid his hands under Flint’s shirt, pinched his nipples so hard he yelped. He did it again, and again, and Flint knew they would be red nubs tomorrow. Sometimes Thomas had done all three: arse, nipples, cock, with the last binding it with leather strips and not allowing him to come for a day and night. Pain bisecting every sex organ then. Flint brought his mind back to the present, no Miranda, no Thomas, gone, please. Something of what he felt must have been conveyed to the man fucking him so he put fingers around Flint’s neck, paused for a moment for objection, before he choked off his air. Flint knew he so close as his muscles were weakened, but it something which tripped his defence mechanism. In any other context he would fight this man off, and it detracted from the shivering sensations in his spine. Then he did not have to think about it as the man came inside him. The man let go of his throat as soon as he had. Flint gasped until he had a full breath in his lungs. Waves of pleasure spread, small contractions in his stomach, his chest, his spine in the way he only got when he had someone in his arse, deep, full, but he was frustratingly not close enough.

Flint heard the man do up his clothes, and his belt with dirk clinked. Then there was a very long pause – surely there were more men? Or was it too disgusting to fuck his soiled hole? He needed this; he was felt something finally, his cock was nearly there, he was nearly there. He was still warm from the drink and now from the stolen heat from the men who had fucked him. He pushed his shirt up and showed the room his arse again, pulling his cheeks apart. It was just his hole, they did not have to look at his face, or his hair or his belly or worse talk to him. Why had they stopped? A hole was a hole was a hole. He needed to get fucked, maybe once more to get there.

The music started and Flint could feel the room turning. He felt a sob catch in the back of his throat. Not now. He needed more, he needed warmth, he needed oblivion. He needed to come. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. Just one more would do. He would scoop everything up after and push the plug in as the first night with Thomas and Miranda, despite the risks.

_Silver – Cock and Bull, Port Royal_

It had taken a massive amount of blathering to get into the back room, which meant Silver arrived a few minutes after Flint. It mirrored the front, but the men here were focused on an interesting tableau. Silver knew that stocky frame – he saw it every day, just not from this angle. Flint had his back to the room; shirt hiked and was currently spreading his arse for everyone to see. Last night’s plug was on display.

He had wondered about that when he had gone to check on the Captain. Unusual, but he had not really thought much more when he had seen the filled arse. It had been displayed because Flint was lying on his side, blanket rucked. Flint had been doing far odder things after Mrs Barlow’s end, being all too obviously grief wrecked on some dark shore.

Silver watched the plug pop out, easy, and smooth, accompanied by a gush of cream. He felt a little surge himself, and his cock awakened, despite not usually considering men that way. It was a magnificent arse covered, but even better bare, lush mountains and valleys and all that. Always autumn of course in the fucking valley. He almost let loose a laugh. He had not prepared for this when he had set out to follow Flint. He had just had a _feeling_. A look in Flint’s eyes Silver had seen before Mrs Barlow’s death, but which was now it was almost permanent. Not actively dying but still trying concerningly hard.

Silver watched one man approach, fuck him casually. Flint bent, and took the pounding easily. He heard the next man mention his loose arse, then far nastier things. Flint did not respond, head down on his coat. Silver could think of no other explanation than he liked it. This was not a normal interaction with Flint. Silver had wondered how Mrs Barlow’s had managed him. This was one of her techniques if the glass plug was any indication. Make him take it, and shame him for it.

He saw the full procession. There was a line after the first one, people saw Flint really was taking all comers. Two young men next, Flint remained seemingly unmoved, no sound escaped him. His body still, quiet with only his arse squelching after a while, combined men’s leavings and the cream. Silver felt odd he could looked his fill, with Flint unknowing. The best view was as they pulled out after spending. But what a welcoming sight his arse would be for a man before he pushed into that solid body!

No. No. He could not. That would— He shrugged. That would be a worry for a man with less….adaptable morals. He would have Captain Flint – Christ everyone else was – and Flint would never know. He would be just one more.

Silver could just see the plug clutched in Flint’s right hand, left gripped on the raised lip of the barrel. This man held Flint hard around his middle, on his ribs, and even from here Silver could tell Flint would bruise as his flesh turned white around his fingers. Sometimes Flint would moan, grunt when the man thrust hard. He kept going and Silver frowned when the man’s hands went to Flint’s throat and squeezed. Silver knew a choke hold, and instead of escaping easily, Flint let him, and his fingers tugged on his hard cock. Silver had learnt a lot of new things tonight and bent did not cover how far his Captain leant. He heard the man come, but nothing from Flint other than him recovering his breath. Silver wanted to see Flint’s cock, see if he liked it. Almost as if he knew Flint moved a little and Silver had a clear view – hard, red skin, red hair. He wanted it, and when would he ever get this chance again? But the crutch would give him away, even with his head down.

He saw the musicians, still on a break. Who would be able to compete with the theatre of Flint’s arse? But he needed them playing. He went over and after some negotiation got them to start, their pockets heavier. Silver stared at the instrument one held. What the hell was that? It was a lute but whale-sized, with far too many strings. Fucking loud though when the man started playing, which was all that mattered.

Silver went over to Flint who was still holding his arse open and placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt the tension release, Flint softened under him. It took care to lean on crutch, whilst opening clothing, but he was better now than he had been, taking his time with tight fabric and buttons one-handed. He pulled his cock out. It had been hard ever since he had seen Flint bent over.

He closed his eyes as he sank in easily, Flint was warm and wet like a woman. Wetter. He tried some experimental moves, before settling on his usual. Even pace, not too fast, not too hard. Flint moved too and pressed back to meet Silver’s chest. Sliver thought it likely his hand was on his cock. What worked for whores and women, apparently worked for Flint as well. Silver wanted his hand on his Captain’s cock, but there was a fair chance it would land him and Flint on the floor, being balanced like this was bad enough. He would just have to imagine it. Flint’s arm worked faster, and Silver took it as a sign he should get on with the job. He put his free arm around the thick chest, tried to get a firm grip so he had more traction. He could feel Flint tighten around him, and around his cock. Close. He sped up a little, his hips pushing Flint’s forward definitively.

Unexpectedly Silver felt Flint come internally, he squeezed around him, and his body jerked forward at little and he shuddered, spine bent. Since Silver did not get a nay he continued to fuck him until he too came, the pleasure a little dim for it being stolen. Flint would be fine with dozens of strangers, just not Silver. Or anyone Flint knew. But what was one more hanging offence for the most feared pirate in the New World? He probably could not with Mrs Barlow in the picture. But she was no more. Silver pulled out and saw more come trickle out of Flint’s arse, now touched a with red. He was bleeding.

Silver turned to look at the queue behind him. A couple of repeats and another five men. As Flint had already come this would be mostly about punishment, not sex. Christ. He would keep going. Silver finished buttoning. There was only one solution really. His duty as quartermaster. He drew out his flintlock and struck Flint on the head. Flint went down backwards, landing on his back, wet cock flopping to the side.

“What’d you do that for?”

“He’s the best ride I’ve had in years.”

“Yeah, I’d pay for that.”

More grumblings, and Silver was a man who could read a situation. He turned around and raised his pistol and tried to aim at the whole room. The music stopped.

“This can go two ways. I shoot one of you, or for some coin you could help me take my friend for some help with his arse,” he looked down at Flint at his feet, “or possibly for some help with his wits.” Silver smiled at everyone and finished with “I’m perfectly willing to shoot.”

Some men shuffled, especially in the line, but finally one man stepped forward. He tried not to roll his eyes. Easily the most delicate in the room, but it was not as if he was spoilt for choice. Silver knew they had seen him ‘convince’ the musicians; it made this easier. They knew he was good for it, and no one wanted to die. “Get him dressed,” Silver said, and the man complied, every item a struggle. There was a lot of Flint passed out. By then bystanders had got bored, despite the pistol, not keen on fucking Flint now he was unconscious, but Silver would not bet on it for some. The man got Flint upright with difficultly and between the two of them they managed to hold him up, stagger to door, then onto the street.

Silver realised there was little chance they would make it to the beach, plus he suspected Flint in this state was not a good look, even if they managed to get him there.

“Where’s the nearest brothel?” Silver was going to say inn for a room, but what Flint needed was the sort of care whores needed.

“Across the street,” the man nodded toward a red painted double storied building, wrought iron fence open, letting out conversation. He looked slightly puzzled. Silver could see how it could be interpreted: him wanting Flint for himself, his ardour unquenched despite the fucking. Although why would he need a brothel when he could have Flint for free?

“Lead on,” he said, and they staggered forth, Flint slipping to one side or another, boots dragging. Silver’s hip was starting to cramp, severed muscles protesting at the strain of uneven weight. He suspected Howell would have words with him about resting. They got there at least, both dropping Flint onto a free chair in the courtyard. Silver paid the man his coin, who left promptly uninterested at the goods on display.

Silver waited for someone to notice him; it didn’t take long. He was approached by an older woman, perhaps Mrs Barlow’s age.

“What could I do you for sirs?” She looked down at Flint. “Sir,” she amended.

“I’d like a room. Minus a whore.”

“That’s a new one. There’s a place for your sort nearby,” she gestured over the fence.

“It is a fine establishment, which has left my companion worse for wear. I need a room and some of the usual items needed by your girls—” Silver nodded to Flint, “to deal with his overindulgence.” Silver need to get this done quickly; he did not know how long the bastard would be out. He reached into his purse again, handed over enough so she did not question further. She called over a couple of women, and they carried Flint to a room, which thankfully on the ground floor.

The whores left him after they placed Flint on the bed and then showed him the items. This was going to be tricky, but he could not let Flint anywhere near the Walrus in his current state. Maybe one man would be imperceptible but not the number he had had. He stank of semen. Then there was disease. Silver bared Flint’s bottom half, and crawled awkwardly on the bed, and tried to not press any weight on his injured side or stump.

His eyes slid over the cock nestled in the ginger hair. He had the odd thought he ought to take Flint’s shirt off as well, see the full thing whilst he had the chance. Silver could ever recall collarbone, and chest just the once, after he had dragged him out of the ocean. That exposure had not been Flint’s choice but Silver’s again.

He pushed Flint over until he was lying on his front. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, pushed away the thought of what would happen if Flint woke up now. He parted the cheeks and was met with a sticky gluey mess, arsehole nearly covered. Thankfully not bleeding anymore – or at least not significantly. He needed to be cleaned, certainly on the outside.

Silver poured some water from one of the pitchers, dampened a washcloth before he wiped away as much of the muck he could from Flint’s arse. He noted the reddened hole. Silver ignored the fact he had contributed to Flint’s state. It could have been another man, or one of the many who had waited for the chance at his arse. Silver had _saved_ him from himself.

Silver was gentle with the cloth, he wiped the crack, and then further down. He did not have to do the whole thing, touch his cock, and felt a small pang of disappointment. He just had to wipe and— his eyes went to the ashet with the syringe, basin, and the bottle of vinegar.

He did not know what Flint did with himself after this type of excursion, but Silver knew from experience what to do to prevent Flint ending up at the Wrecks demented with syphilis, sores weeping red. He knew it was a chance for him too, having fucked Flint, but it was always worse chances for woman…or anyone who received. Like his Captain. For a clever man Flint could be alarmingly stupid. Also, what the fuck was wrong with him that he wanted to do this to himself anyway?

Silver had a feeling this it was sadly not going to be the last, going by Flint’s behaviour since Mrs Barlow’s death. A slow death or a fast one, Flint would take either. Even before Mrs. Barlow, Silver reconsidered, as he thought of the time Flint had ended up in the water. He had seen him swim later to the man o’ war, all he would have had to do before was lose the coat and sword, and _kick_. He looked down at the body below and felt sorry for him for the first time. He was so ordinary like this, broad freckled back, ginger furred legs, and admittedly his very good arse. Silver wondered what Flint had said to get them going, what the invitation had been. Nothing complicated, just the right words at the right time. Like always. That is where his power lay, his words and his eyes affixed to his audience.

Silver breathed in deeply, tried to gather his courage to do the internal wash. He didn’t want to do it, and he was very certain Flint wouldn’t want him to do it. _He was going to do it._ This was not the job of a quartermaster and he wasn’t even sure why he wanted Flint whole and alive. Silver didn’t trust him, he didn’t care for him, he didn’t care for his manipulation or sarcasm or his other multitude of aggravations and failings.

He remembered the solution. He mixed the simple vinegar to water ratio in the ashet, ready to be drawn into the syringe. Then closed his eyes again. He could not do it on the bed by himself, he needed Flint over the basin. He used his crutch and dragged a chair close. He then got off the bed and placed all he needed beside it on the floor.

The chair thankfully was not upholstered. He thought about calling the madam again or co-opting another whore, but he did not want them to see Flint like this. Diminished. But they saw worse every day. He strengthened his stance, making sure the crutch was in the right place, pulled Flint by his legs until he was hanging over the bed. Silver positioned the chair and did the final push, so Flint was flopped crosswise on the chair. Now came the difficult part. He made sure his balance was good before he hauled Flint up high and simultaneously folded his legs under him, one arm above and below. It took far too much effort and Silver was afraid Flint would wake at the noises he made. Silver dropped on the bed, heartbeat fast and slightly dizzy. The pain he was not trying to think about crept closer.

One last bit and his duty would be done. He looked over at Flint, he was bend double sideways on the chair, chest on knees, arms flopped over. His arse was accessible and positioned just so. Silver got off the bed and ungainly sank to the ground. He positioned the basin under Flint’s arse. He spread Flint’s crack again and saw more come dribble out. Normally his moth—he knew some cream was required for the tip to penetrate but Flint was so full, and likely greased from before he could probably get away with it. He could not immediately see anything anyway and he’d have to get up off the floor to fetch it. He needed this over fast. He realised his hands were shaking.

He dipped the tip and drew liquid into the syringe. He pushed it inside Flint and depressed the plunger. Flint moaned and Silver’s heart skipped a few beats.

Silver swallowed, waited a minute before pulling it out, holding the basin under to catch the liquid coming out. Once more and then he decided to stop. It was distracting, the intimacy of it, maybe more than when he had fucked Flint at the tavern. Flint had no control. Once he was sure nothing more was coming out, he wiped his arse again. It looked ok, red, but not soiled, the smell gone, but distinctly smelling of vinegar. Silver thought the people he’d known as a child had used oils of flowers after? Before? To take away the harshness of the odour. The punters did not like them to smell like chips. He was sure he could find something for the soreness, but he was done.

He needed to get out of here. The original plan had been the beach to wait for the launches at 10 bells, but he was leaving now. He slid the chair flush to the bed again and pushed Flint so he was on the bed. He tossed the clothes beside him; Flint could work out how to clean the leather at the seat of his breeches. He saw the underclothes and they were not salvageable, marred by a large pink stain. He wondered again why Flint did this, what he found in it. Not sex, not really.

He looked at the shaved head, beard, face almost lax. Control. Or rather, losing it in a way he would not do as Flint. Sliver felt enlightened because he had suspected something of the sort, in the way they interacted. The way Flint had allowed Silver to trim his hair, pliant and still. He filed it away to ponder later. It was a far more interesting revelation than ‘Flint likes getting fucked in the arse’.

On the way out he handed over something extra to compensate her for the loss of her room. Bloody expensive night. Next time he was not following his captain, no matter furtive or suicidal he looked.

_Flint – brothel, Port Royal_

He opened his eyes as soon as Silver left. He’d come to with the gush of liquid inside, metal inserted into his arse. It had been pleasurable even with Silver off to one side. He had clenched reflexively, but Silver didn’t notice. Flint knew it would be ok, his usual fear, as he had not eaten anything for a couple of days for anything disgusting to emerge. Just the leavings of… he did not count. A few men. Less because he had passed out.

He felt his head, and there it was. A painful spot where he had been coshed. By his quartermaster who had to have then seen him bent over taking it. Who had presumably stopped it for some reason of his own? Flint had liked it, had even come. Even after he usually did not mind if people kept fucking him, the oversensitive pain a different delight. Hurt, pain and humiliation worked now when nothing else did. With Thomas and Miranda, it had been a game, now it was reality. Flint knew there was a chance the men wouldn’t stop when he asked them to (he never had), or if they’d decide he was an easy target being the one who took it, and that would be it. He would prefer a nicer way to go, but he was beginning to care less.

But this was nice. This would be what he would do for himself, a room to wash and tidy and remove the leavings, but nothing as sophisticated as that syringe. Not frequenting brothels, he did not know what the whores did. He remembered Silver’s voice as he pushed the tip in, soft crooning as the water went in the second time, asked him to wait a minute or two, and then pulled it away so it splashed into the basin. Flint suspected he had not known he had spoken out loud.

No one had ever taken take of him afterwards. No one had wiped his arse clean. He had not allowed either of his lovers that intimacy, yet here was Silver who had taken it for himself in that way of his. Uninvited. He would think about it later. Now he felt pleasantly warm, and somewhat distant as he always did after an experience like this. Loose of body, loose of mind. Or maybe just lost.

Flint shrugged off his shirt and lay naked on the bed on his side and tried to imagine Miranda on one and Thomas on the other. This was his favourite fantasy. He imagined their shapes and their warmth and how he had felt in the middle encircled by their love. Warm. He drifted away then, feeling a distant wish for food, but mostly enjoying his dead lovers on either side.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just as sorry as you that you read that. If you want to yell at me you can find me on Tumblr: [iressails](https://iressails.tumblr.com/)  
> Please come back for more! (This is part 2 of 3.)


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